


Crossing

by mcicioni



Category: The Magnificent Seven (1960)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, fluff-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:27:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26397148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcicioni/pseuds/mcicioni
Summary: Chris and Vin cross the Rio Grande to get back to the States. (Will we ever run out of ideas for what they can do after leaving the Mexican village?)
Relationships: Chris Adams & Vin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	Crossing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BethLange](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BethLange/gifts).



> Thanks, as usual, to darcyone for language improvements.
> 
> For BethLange, for all her helpful suggestions in this and other areas.

  
  


They’ve been riding for over two days. The first day, when they left the village, was warm and dusty. The next day, they were not far from the Rio Grande when it started raining, heavy, continuous autumn rain. Cold, wet and irritable, they spent an uncomfortable night in a cave, dozing intermittently, keeping close to a small fire and eating dried meat and dried fruit, their hardtack having quickly been reduced to sodden mush.

Today it’s so hot that it could be midsummer. Their clothes are mud-spattered, they’ve almost run out of food and water, and neither of them feels much like talking. Another job over, Chris says silently to himself, and with it the lives of thirty-odd men. Under different circumstances, some of these men, on both sides, might well have been friends.

Thoughts and words flit through his mind and flit out again. Sotero’s _They have no sons, no daughters, no wives_. The old man’s _Like a strong wind blowing over the land and passing on_ , an answer to Vin’s quiet _We didn’t get any more than we expected._ He feels Vin’s eyes rest on him every now and then, but neither of them talks.

Maybe that’s because talking would inevitably include mentioning what each of them might do once they cross into the States and reach a town. They’re the only two survivors of their former group, apart from Chico, who has chosen his own country, his own people. He and Vin will soon be back in their country, but they’re too jaded to do anything other than keep living like they’ve been doing so far, the weight of their choices growing heavier every day.

Chris shoos all thoughts away and looks at Vin, who has reined in and is dismounting. He dips a hand into a saddlebag, pulls out a greasy-looking piece of thin leather, shoves his hat back and studies it. There’s some mud on his forehead and a bit more on his nose.

Chris dismounts and looks over Vin’s shoulder. The map of New Mexico is covered with assorted stains, torn in a couple of places and almost damp enough to crumble, but it’s still legible. Barely.

Chris points to a faded line somewhere to the left. “Almost there.”

  
  


They get to the Rio Grande by mid-morning. They stop and look at each other. When they rode in the other direction six weeks ago, the crossing was a wide stretch of dry land with sparse bushes, the river was about eighty feet wide, and the water barely reached their stirrups. Now, after the heavy rainfall, the dry land is only a couple of yards wide and the river is over a hundred feet wide, and down the middle of the water there’s a line of small foam-topped waves swiftly chasing each other.

“Let’s make camp and wash some of the mud off,” Chris suggests. “It’s not as if we have to be anywhere in a hurry.”

Vin nods, slides off his horse, and in a minute flat he’s taken off bandana, shirt, gunbelt, boots and trousers, and he’s wearing just hat and underpants. He drops his hat onto the untidy pile, pads to his saddlebags and pulls out a large cake of soap. Chris raises an eyebrow. 

“Present from a grateful Mexican lady,” Vin says, smiling. He looks at Chris and bursts out laughing. “Seventy years old if she was a day. Same one who stitched me up.”

“Speaking of which. You don’t want to get your thigh too wet.”

“Nah. Almost full healed. I’m good.” And he’s kneeling in the shallows, scrubbing away at mud-spattered clothes, and then at his chest, armpits and back. Chris abruptly turns away. He’ll go through the strip-and-wash routine when Vin is done.

“Hey, listen.”

Chris turns around. Vin has soaped up his hair as well; under the cap of suds, his eyes are wide open, friendly, apparently innocent.

“Five dollars says I can swim across faster ‘n you.” Most likely five dollars is all he’s got left after the past six weeks. The smart thing to do is ignore the challenge altogether, have a quick wash, and cross. After they’ve crossed, they'll discuss what options they have, and then probably part ways.

“Thought you were from the Midwest,” he hears himself blurt out.

“So? Plenty of waterholes in sodbuster land. Where I grew up there were two rivers and a lake. You ever learn to swim in the swamps of Louisiana?” He swims a couple of quick strokes upstream, rinses off all the suds, and just stands there, hands on hips, lips parting in a mischievous smile. 

In the plantation where Chris grew up, the master’s sons had a tutor who was paid to teach them the five indispensable skills for a gentleman – shooting, swimming, fencing, dancing and card-playing. The older son was a perfect gentleman even though he was uncoordinated and clumsy. The younger son excelled at all five skills, but did not have the attitudes the family considered appropriate. 

Chris’s stomach contracts. He closes his eyes, sends the recollection back to the hell it came from, and reopens them: “You’re on.” He makes short work of stripping to his underwear and walks up to Vin. “All the way across. On three.”

They count and dive in together. The shock of the impact with the cold surface is like a fist in Chris’s guts, but doesn’t last long. He goes under, relishing the feel of the sweat and dirt being washed off him, resurfaces and easily finds a rhythm. His body is light, his arms and legs move fast and smoothly, it’s the same rush of excitement that used to run through him when he hunted or swam, when he was was young and arrogant, when the world was wide open. _Before_.

Vin swims strongly, but isn’t quite aware of the need to coordinate his strokes with his breathing out and in; he falls a little behind and gets to the other side three or four strokes after Chris.

“You’re good,” he concedes easily. “But I have a leg wound,” he adds, laughing and panting. “Just wait till it’s properly healed.” He looks away, takes a couple of deep breaths and starts swimming back towards their horses, water dancing across his broad shoulders, sinewy arms moving confidently.

Chris waits a little while and slowly swims back. When he steps onto the dusty sand, Vin, fully dressed, hands him a crumpled, damp banknote. 

“While you’re washin your things I’ll go shoot somethin we can eat,” he says, and mounts up and rides off, leaving Chris alone with the cake of soap, his muddy clothes, and his assortment of unsettling thoughts.

  
  


They’re on American land, the campfire is still burning, their stomachs are full of jackrabbit, and they’re sharing the last of the dried fruit. The water in front of them is almost completely still, the surface is shimmering with what’s left of the daylight.

There’s a small pinkish stain on Vin’s right trouser leg. Chris points at it, shaking his head. “Stupid race. At our age. Soon as we get to a town you’re going to see a doctor. No arguments.”

Vin shrugs, grinning. “Competition’s fun. At any age.” Then he turns serious again. “Some stupid things can be useful,” he says. He lowers his voice: “Especially after a job.” He hesitates for a moment, then reaches over and brushes his thumb along the bags under Chris’s eyes. His skin is rough, his touch light. “You worry too damn much. Got to learn to let go. Some of the time at least.”

He gets up, goes to his horse and pulls out his excuse for a map. “Next town’s about five, six miles from here,” he says, then goes silent. The faint lines on his forehead deepen a little.

“Yeah,” Chris says slowly. “We can stop there for a couple of days.” He looks at the way Vin exhales a little breath as he nods, and allows himself to lay a hand on his forearm, to touch warm skin and soft corn-coloured hair. “We need a decent map. And bullets. And money to buy them.”

“And maybe you’ll even tell me where you learned to swim,” Vin’s face is impassive, but in his voice there are fondness and more than a hint of teasing. “Essential skill for a hired gun.”

 _Hiring our guns doesn’t have to be the only way to earn a living_ , Chris thinks, fishing a cigar out of his breast pocket and lighting it. He’ll keep this daunting notion to himself, for the time being at least. He just says, “I’ll show you how you should breathe in the water,” but Vin catches the little lip twitch that accompanies the words and returns it with interest.

Chris blows out a long, pensive puff of smoke. They’re back home, in a place that’s home to neither of them. And somehow they have crossed another border, the invisible one between being allies and being friends. They don’t have any maps for this new place, they’ll have to move slowly.

He shakes himself and blows another puff in Vin’s direction.

“First we'll find the doctor,” he says. “Then the money I won off you will get us a good dinner. And then, let’s see what action there is around here.”


End file.
